


Stop Trusting Your Luck

by Freckles_From_Brooklyn



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Jon and Martin are in love your honor, Jon doesn't but they do and you cannot change my mind, Jon is pining too but Martin doesn't know it, M/M, Martin is PINING, Spoilers through the season 4 finale, TW Explosions, The archive assistants call Michael Fuckhands McMike, this is kind of a rewrite of my earlier fic of the same name, tw worms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:42:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28540485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freckles_From_Brooklyn/pseuds/Freckles_From_Brooklyn
Summary: Martin wished Jon would stop throwing himself headfirst into danger.A rewrite and reupload of my earlier fic of the same name, updated to include events through the season 4 finale. The first fic will be deleted.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Kudos: 5





	Stop Trusting Your Luck

Martin wished Jon would stop throwing himself headfirst into danger. That was kind of rich, he knew, coming from the guy who had gone looking for Jane Prentiss, but that was different. There was no way he could have known that she was a worm-house when he set out to find her, but Jon… Jon knew a lot. Jon tended to have a general idea of what he was getting into, what entities he was going up against, and still he went, often without a fully formed plan or proper precautions, and Martin  _ hated _ it. He would have liked to go with Jon, to offer some sort of protection or, at the very least, some emotional support, but he never seemed to be in the right place.

Martin hadn’t been there for the worst of the worms. Sure, he’d been there when the first one buried itself in Jon’s leg, and it had been his corkscrew that had gotten it out, a point of morbid pride for him, but then everything had gone to shit, he’d gotten lost in the tunnels, separated from Tim and Jon, and the next time he’d seen the Archivist, he’d been covered in bandages, riddled with worm-holes, almost dead on his feet. He hadn’t been there for the second major incident either. While Jon was running through the tunnels, trying to escape the murderous thing that had been masquerading as Sasha for months, Martin had been with Tim, lost in the tunnels again, being threatened by the thing known to the archive staff as Fuckhands McMike.

The third time was the worst. Martin knew the plan this time. He knew what the others were up to, knew what was at stake, knew all of the risks, and he was the one who was supposed to stay at the archive. He was the diversion, the one who had to try desperately to distract Elias. Sure, the mission was dangerous. There were plastic explosives involved, for god’s sake. But there was supposed to have been a plan. None of Martin’s friends should have been in the vicinity when the explosives were detonated. Jon was supposed to have come back with just a few scrapes, maybe a bruise here and there. Martin already hadn’t been in the best headspace when he’d seen the news. How could he have been, with Elias’s attack rattling around his brain? An explosion at a wax museum. Two survivors. He’d driven to the hospital immediately, recklessly. He’d asked desperately at the front desk, and he’d been told that the survivors had been one man and one woman. The woman had been strangely unharmed, and had been discharged. The man was in critical condition. Martin hardly remembered the trip up to that hospital. He just remembered seeing Jon lying on the bed, unresponsive. He remembered collapsing into the chair next to the bed and  _ weeping _ . It wasn’t supposed to have been like this. None of this was supposed to have happened. 

And then he was working as Peter Lukas’s assistant, slowly being cut off from the rest of the Institute. He wasn’t even there when Jon woke up. He had to learn about what Jon was doing secondhand, listening to his friends as they told him. First it had been the coffin. The stupid fucking coffin. Jon was in there for three days, and Martin could hardly concentrate on his work, on fruitlessly trying to explain computers to Peter. He piled tape recorders around the coffin, hoping that it would help Jon find his way back. It was a stupid idea. Jon would have laughed at him for it, but it was all Martin could do to stop himself from going mad. He hadn’t been there when Jon got out of the coffin either. And then Daisy had told him that Jon and Basira had gone to the north pole, to confront the Dark. 

And then.

And then.

And then.

And then Peter was guiding Martin through the tunnels. And then he was telling Martin that he needed to kill Jonah Magnus’s body. And then Elias was there, taunting him. And then Martin made his choice.  _ No. _ And then he was being pulled away, Peter Lukas’s calloused hands on his shoulder, lost in a sea of fog, on a neverending beach, next to a cold, grey ocean. And then Jon was there, pulling him out. 

And then they were in a cottage in Scotland, of all places, and Martin was going out on a walk to give Jon some privacy while he read a statement. He wasn’t supposed to have been gone long. Nothing was supposed to have happened while he was gone. The sky wasn’t supposed to have exploded, the world wasn’t supposed to have turned on its head, and when martin ran back to the cottage, he wasn’t supposed to have seen Jon lying on the floor. The only thing running through martin’s head at that moment was pure, unadulterated panic. The last time he’d seen Jon passed out like this, he’d been in a coma for six months. He’d rushed to Jon’s side immediately, shaking him and calling his name. He couldn’t lose Jon, not now, not like this. He couldn’t lose the man he loved.


End file.
